


Does it say?

by Crowsister



Series: Hear Me Roar (and you'll know your name sounds better when it's whispered low) [1]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Experimental Style, Extended Scene, F/M, Retribution Spoilers, Self Indulgent Use of Ballet, Spoilers, minor description of injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 09:26:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19943878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowsister/pseuds/Crowsister
Summary: Everything about you is written into your DNA...isn't it?





	Does it say?

**Author's Note:**

> I got this scene in the current Fallen Hero: Retribution Alpha (7/23/19) and boy howdy, I just couldn't stop myself from expanding on it with headcanon details from Kyra's backstory.
> 
> Second warning: contains spoilers. Big time. For both romance Herald and platonic Steel paths (because I am a fool who weaves them together because I love these two so much)

__

_“So this is what I am.” You spread your arms for him, blinking away your tears, awaiting judgment. “Do you get it now?”_

_“What?” A moment's confusion and then...finally...he adds up the dots. His frown deepens, and he looks between your face and your chest, marred by scars and brightly orange tattoos, marking you as other. As not human. “Are you saying that...”_

_“Yes.” You can't handle his disbelief. “Your hero Sidestep was an escaped Re-Gene. A fake. A cuckoo meant to look like people for infiltration purposes.” It's easier to talk about your past self. Your present one wants the condemnation too much. Is too afraid of it at the same time._

_“You're not...” He reaches out, and you flinch. It's involuntary and it makes him jerk his hand back._

_“I am. I'm not human.” Maybe it's the grim look on your face that finally gets the point across. You can feel the confusion dissipate into acceptance. Into...defiance?_

_“Bullshit.” Daniel's mind has settled into an angry line, but he's not angry at you. “You're more human than anyone I've ever met.” He takes a step closer, and you take one back. You don't know what he feels. He doesn't know what he feels._

_“That's not your call,” you retort, running your fingers along your barcode. “Bring a reader and you can browse my genetic code, then you'd really know everything about me.” Hurting people is easy. You've had enough practice on yourself._

_“Really?” Daniel's mouth twitches, but whether in a grimace or a smile you don't know. It can't be a snarl, he's too soft for that._

####  **_“Does it say that the scar on your hand always itches when you're stressed?”_ **

* * *

You knew you should’ve looked deeper into this man’s mind. You assumed he was like you from appearance and surface thoughts, someone hungry and desperate. A street rat like you were supposed to be.

You should have checked to see if he was also like you in not being what he appeared to be, that he wasn’t desperate — he was greedy. And greed isn’t something you can trust ( _they_ had greed staining all of their emotions, every single one of them, as they looked at you). Desperation wasn’t greed, not exactly, you realize as he comes at you with a switchblade. Greed, on its own, was foreign to you, you certainly _wanted_ but you never ascended to greed. You never knew how. 

Until now.

He swipes aggressively with his left fist, feeling the greed for the contents of the cashier from deep in his stomach. Greed was hunger, starvation, but with malice attached. The overwhelming feeling of it from this man is like an accidental attack on you, the purity of his avarice distracting you enough for him to get a lucky hit. His switchblade sinks into where you’ve been taught the flexor pollicis brevis muscle is, the fatty muscle that helps articulate your thumb. You manage to pull back before it goes all the way through, focusing your mind to drop him unconscious. He falls onto the floor in a heap, switchblade clattering. You scoop it up, falling into instinct as you make sure there is no biological evidence you were ever here.

Just your luck the two of you had broken into a convenience store. You’ll laugh about the irony later, your own private joke as you’ll recall the medical kit you lifted and the small bottles of bleach. For now, you patch yourself up, clean the switchblade (pocketing it and the cash the cashier “forgot” in the register), and pull your “accomplice” outside the store. You settle him into the alleyway near the store and leave him with a quarter of the money (less than what had been agreed on, but he lost his right to half the goods when he attacked you).

You wipe his memory of you, gently adjusting his memories so you were never there. But that he did go through with his plan, acting on that lazy teenage clerk’s bad habits. He lost his switchblade and most of the money when he was mugged shortly after by the group of rich white kids that always gave him trouble every Thursday.

You were never there. But the bandage (and the eventual scar) on your left hand says you were.

* * *

####  **_“That you like petting dogs when their owners aren't watching?”_ **

* * *

The dog park. This budding friendship with Chen (not the Marshal, not Steel — not after he took time from work to let you spend time with Spoon, not after he unknowingly gave you a second truce when you two saved those civvies, not after he looked for you so hard that he found _autopsy pictures,_ he couldn’t be anyone but Chen after that. It’d been a surprise at first, but now it was simply as much of a fact as the sky being blue and Spoon being cute) was a bright point in your life. You’d always wanted to be friends with him, but back when you were Sidestep, he put up walls. He’s letting some down now, letting you in a little bit, and you’re grateful. It’s not a reward for your care, you don’t want a reward for caring enough about him that you hold yourself back as Macavity, but this friendship acts as fuel for that care. (A part of you tries to rationalize that that care makes you human, but the rest of you knows better.)

The two of you have built this gentle quiet that you both need. You needing the solid silence he is so very good at and him needing the gentle teasing and the foil you provide (softer than Ortega, subtler, but still a contrasting perspective). Besides, Spoon likes you. Chen thankfully hasn’t seemed to make the connection, that Spoon’s better behavior is linked to you, linked to you gently easing Spoon’s conditioning, you teaching Spoon that the chase is fun (not biting, biting is for self defense and food) and to run _to_ Chen rather than away from him. You don’t know how Chen would react if he ever connected those dots and you have no plans to tell him, right now.

Spoon runs up to check in on you both, making sure you aren’t bored. His playmate, a golden retriever with honey gold fur, follows him curiously. What was so important to stop playing? Her mind is friendly enough that you feel confident in slowly reaching out to her. She meets you halfway, reveling in the petting and the scritching and all the other magic your hands give her right behind her ears.

“Do you make a habit of petting other people’s dogs?” Chen asks with a tentatively teasing tone in his voice that makes you want to throw a party for the growth of your friendship, for him to be able to feel comfortable teasing you. The next goal post: gag gifts. You had your eye on a small business that took commissions on custom dog clothes. Getting Spoon some Steel merchandise pajamas for Christmas seems like a good next step.

You wink at him, smiling. “Only good dogs.”

The two of you spend another half hour at the park, but then work calls Chen back. He takes Spoon back to his apartment, but you stay with the golden retriever until her owner comes for her. You learn her name is Inch (“In for an inch, in for a mile — she used to be the runt of the litter”) and her owner lets you give her some treats. It indirectly distracts you from seeing an admirer watching you from a nearby rooftop.

* * *

####  **_“That you sleep too little and drink too much coffee?”_ **

* * *

You didn’t mean to fall asleep. You’re usually so good at being disciplined with your sleep, but you fostering good friendships with both the Marshal and the ex-Marshal of the Rangers has had an unintended side effect of making the Rangers HQ comfortable enough to sleep in. Your survival instincts absolutely _hate_ this. You shouldn’t be getting close to anyone, but you can’t help it, your cuckoo instincts are too close to human that it makes you want to form connections.

It’s not the first time — this is arguably the fourth time. The first time, you woke up with Spoon curled up next to you on the floor of the rec room. The second time, you woke up while Julia moved you to the couch in her more private office. The third time, Chen woke you up via the smell from the coffee machine (he is, ironically, one of your best enablers on that front. It’s not like he could judge you for the habit itself).

This time you woke up to Herald took a step towards you. Too light for Chen and Ortega, too close to be Argent (you got the impression that Argent simply steered clear of you on the other times you’d fallen asleep. You’re pretty sure it’s out of some kind of respect). You almost crack a grin, seeing him actually on his tiptoes to sneak. You sit up on the couch, rolling your shoulders back and stretching.

“Sorry,” he says and he means it too, with every bone in his body. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s okay, I shouldn’t keep making a habit of falling asleep here anyway,” you reply, giving him a small smile. You get a bit smug, feeling his thoughts mislabel the biological response that your smile prompts in his body (if his heart truly had skipped a beat, he’d be dead). “Bit of out of training training? Tiptoes do shit for sneaking.”

“Really?” he asks. “I knew I should’ve just hovered-”

“Okay, but in case you can’t hover or you forget to hover,” you reply, not being able to help yourself, “sneak with the entirety of your foot. It distributes the weight better so that on any kind of floor, you’ll be silent. If you want extra precaution, thick socks on carpets, barefoot on slippery floors.” You remember the boots in your Macavity costume and how they mimic that tidbit, then you remember the feelings you had just last night breaking into the private collection of that corrupt politician, and it summons a slightly wider smile. “Shoes take a while to master sneaking in, but it’s doable with practice. Tiptoe just gives you away that you were sneaking in the first place.”

Herald looks at you like you’ve just handed him a puzzle piece and told him to find the puzzle it belongs to. “Did you grow up in an abusive household?” You feel him mentally wince, the words trickled out of him because he was...greedy to know about you? No...he was simply hungry for knowledge about you. There was no malice (there never is, with Herald. Even fighting him at the gala, there was no malice from him).

You hum lightly. “Of sorts,” you answer, giving him an inch. “I kept that kind of knowledge when I was Sidestep, since it was better to be sneakier.” That and you can’t help it. If it wasn’t for Ortega, you doubt many would have noticed you at all. Like you told Chen: you like it when people don’t know that you’re good at things. It makes it easier to surprise them.

Wait then why were you telling Herald the first lesson you learned about stealth? Focus. Oh no, Herald’s been talking. You don’t even have to look into his mind to catch up, he’s broadcasting nervously about how he’s rambling to make up for opening wounds again, how could you have done that, you’re supposed to support her-

“Hey,” you reply, gently cutting his rambling off, “this isn’t like when you asked me about Heartbreak. My childhood, or lack thereof, is something that’s been a factor in my life for a while now and I’ve...mostly processed it.” Weaponized it. Weaponized your anger at them, at how they can’t just let go, at how they couldn’t just let you pretend you were human. Then weaponized your desire to show the world the truth, as revenge, penance, and...to maybe have a chance at having a life. “Tell you what. I will call it even if you use that coffee maker to make me some coffee while I remember if we have any demerara sugar around here.”

“We could go out for better coffee,” he replies, but moves to fulfill your request anyway.

You smirk. “Oh, I could go for double coffee,” you reply.

* * *

####  **_“That you probably lost a front tooth in the past because your tongue keeps searching for a gap that's not there anymore?”_ **

* * *

“Again.” Danse Russe begins to play again.

You look up, squinting against the harsh white light. You look back down at the room in front of you. The hardwood floor, the mirrored walls (all reflecting you and your growing body, your lanky limbs, your blonde hair pulled into a bun, the black leotard stitched with orange that mimics the tattoos on your skin), the indifferent barre. You move back towards the barre, going through demi-plié, then grand plié...the bending warmups that you can do in your sleep.

Then you leave the barre, going to the center of the room, adage always meticulous adage, settle into first position. Then you go through the other parts of the routine, letting yourself grow comfortable in the way your body bends any way you want it to, how it responds so easily and casually. You smile, as your supposed to, as the role demands, but...it’s not hard. You’ll only learn the label for this emotion later in life, but you _enjoy_ the grace you’ve been trained into. You always will.

But your foot lands wrong and so does the rest of you. Too fast, too free, you fall down face first into the hardwood, too quickly to have shut your smile down. Your teeth slam into the hardwood. You feel your mouth bleed as everything within it aches.

You slowly sit up on your own and bring a hand to hover right in front of your mouth as you assess the damage. You spit out a tooth into the hand, your tongue moving to stop the bleeding.

They do not replace the tooth for two months, making you _feel_ its disappearance. Your mistake. You begin to hold your tongue there during practice, a biological reminder that forms into habit, even after the tooth is replaced. 

Ortega will tease you about it, when she eventually sees you concentrating without your mask on (she will lock herself out of her apartment, keys on the dining room table, and you will lockpick back _into_ her apartment). You will not tell her the full story, only parts: the hardwood floor, the mirrored walls, the indifferent barre...

* * *

####  **_“Does it say that you have friends?”_ **

* * *

“Kyra!”

You stop, blinking as Ortega charges you. You stop yourself from flinching or attacking back (Kyra does not claw, Kyra does not hiss, Macavity claws, Macavity hisses) as she scoops you up.

“Julia, what-”

“I need your help, are you busy? Do you have to go right now, this minute?”

You blink again. “I...I don’t _need_ to get home right now.” You remind yourself that your planned heist on the museum’s new exhibit on loan from the American Museum of the House Cat is tomorrow night, not tonight. That Egyptian cat amulet was going to be there, you could...you could spend time here that wasn’t “pour over Julia’s Hollow Ground corkboard”. Be social, with very little strings attached. “What kind of help do you need?”

Julia puts you back down and begins to explain in the rapidfire way she falls into when she’s trying to talk too fast for you to follow, trying to goad you into agreeing without fully realizing the entirety of the situation. 

You manage to make out “competition”, “not enough people”, and “humanizing” before you put your hands up. “Whoa, whoa, Jules, slow down,” you reply, acting innocent of her ploy. “Simplify it into bullet points and not a verbal thousand page novel you’re trying to rap in 3 minutes.”

“Okay, so,” she starts again, barely hiding her disappointment that you didn’t fall for her trick, “we’re making little blog videos, to put up on the Rangers’s website. Small, humanizing moments. So, to capture some moments, we decided to start with a karaoke competition. However, Chen’s managed to loophole his way out of participating by being the judge, meaning there’s only three of us and we could only get Angie to agree to it if we did teams. Wanna even us out? We won’t record your bits, I swear we’ll edit the whole thing to look like we weren’t on teams.”

You inhale slowly through your nose. “What do the teams look like now?” You do your best to ignore the amusement that’s radiating off the receptionist like sunlight.

“It’s Herald that needs a teammate,” Julia replies, trying to give you puppy-dog eyes. “I don’t wanna _decimate_ him with Angie, like humble bragging but my rendition of AC/DC’s Thunderstruck is amazing and I know that Angie’s really good at goth metal tracks, he’s gonna need your very good, very pretty-”

“Jules,” you exhale quickly, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I sang _once._ For charity.”

“This is _also_ charity!”

“For donations to animal shelters, Jules.”

Ortega grins at you and replies, “Look at Herald. Tell me he’s not a puppy. C’mon, tell me you don’t look at him and see a golden retriever.”

You open your mouth, inhaling. Then the memory of Inch pops up, like a bear trap. You look over at a promotional poster with Herald’s face on it, comparing his face to the memory of Inch. Then you slowly close your mouth. “I...cannot say that he doesn’t resemble one.”

“So?” Julia seems twenty years younger, looking at you with hope and a medley of other emotions that make your chest ache with guilt (you smashed her into the ground, caused the scars along her left cheek, that was _you)._

You inhale slowly. “Fine.” You clap your hands together. “Fine!” You will never admit to playing up your dramatic acceptance for the receptionist. Never. “I will, but-” You swat at Julia’s hands before she picks you up. “I will walk to wherever you all are doing this.”

Ortega takes your hand (like she’s scared of you backing out and sneaking away, and to be fair to Julia, that’s a very fair fear to have) and leads you back into Rangers HQ. She brings you into the rec room, where Chen has settled into the corner in one of the heavy duty chairs and Argent is looking at the multimedia machine like she’s debating whether to smash it or not. Herald is hovering above the ground nearby it, looking through the song selection.

“Okay,” you reply, rolling your shoulders back as everyone’s attention snaps to you, “how are we being judged? Is it technical singing skill or playing to the judge’s tastes?” You wink at Chen and he rolls his eyes, able to hide his amusement on the surface but not from leaking out of his shields. “I cannot imagine that Marshall Steel will be judging by bias, after all.” It’s become easier to tease him in a way that builds him up, that plays into the image he wants to have at work, that gets him to twitch into a smile physically for the briefest of seconds.

“I have no formal training in music, but I’d prefer to attempt judging by skill over biases.”

You nod sagely. “Makes sense.” You walk over to Herald, who floats another inch up at your approach. He relaxes lightly as you look at the current page in the music selection list, not moving it since he was using it first. You feel the others move their attention off of you (though you’re certain Chen is watching the room at large and Julia can’t help but snoop). “So, it looks like it’s you and me against classic rock old lady and Argent. Any genre you like in particular?”

“I um.” You watch his mask, the calm and charismatic one with no deceit, crack a little under the idea of getting to hear you sing in person. He used to listen to your charity track a lot, preferring it over the original song (which is entirely too honest and flattering, you can’t help but blush lightly). “I’m a little bit of everything kind of guy.”

“Gregorian chants?” You ask, smirking lightly (to distract him from your blushing. It works). “White noise?”

He chuckles a bit (to release some of the tension in his body). “If it’s good, I like it. What about you?”

“Give me strong vocals and lyrics I like and I’m set. Instrumental music is fine, but in small doses.”

He nods and you let him get back to looking through everything. You both select songs (he makes an effort to physically hide the song he chose from you and you let him have that brief privacy. You pick something you like, but is suitably subtle) and step away from the machine. You spot the camera they have set up and you adjust your leather jacket, just to be safe.

“Why don’t you go first?” Chen asks. You look to see him looking at you and you tilt your head like the alley cat you feed outside your apartment. “Before we turn on the recording equipment.” His vocal tone is business, but you think you can feel a bit of a protective streak from him. Wait is he...is he broadcasting for your benefit? You blink quickly as you realize that he is.

You smile a bit as you nod, inhaling slowly. You can perform: that was the key verb of your life, wasn’t it? Perform. You step up to where they’ve set up the microphone and you begin to sing. You can feel the rust on your vocal chords, unused to singing (when was the last time you sang like this? The charity event?). You can hear your voice trip a little over phrasing, hitching in places you hadn’t intended. “All the people living in, living in the world today...reunited by our love, reunited by our pain. All the things that I've done and I've seen. Still, I don't know, don't know what it means...”

Herald’s adoration is emanating from him like heat from a heater. It relaxes you a bit, relaxes your guard enough that you close your eyes and sway to the piano notes playing with the song. It’s not a miracle fix, you know there’s still bad instances in your singing, but...fewer now. You open your eyes as the song ends and you give a small bow before scurrying out of the area. Julia makes sure to pat you on the back as you pass and you stick your tongue out at her, making her laugh.

* * *

####  **_“People that care about you?”_ **

* * *

You blink awake as there is a pounding at your apartment door. You live in a comfortable apartment away from Bruce (your puppet) and a short walk away from your fake storefront. You have no idea why anyone would be pounding on your door at...oh it’s noon. You roll out of bed, making sure that all the parts of your Macavity suit are carefully hidden away (hidden compartment in your underwear drawer, embarrassment was an easy tool for obfuscation). You inhale sharply to conceal the fact your nose is stuffy, you’re not sick, you can’t be sick.

Opening the door, you blink as you see Ortega standing there with an apologetic looking Herald (Daniel, your mind supplies). You raise an eyebrow. “Hello?”

“Hey, I say this as your friend who knows and loves you, you look like shit.”

You give a wry smile. “Reason number forty-five for why I wore a mask back in the day.”

Julia snorts. “I mean like you’re _sick shit._ You go head over back to bed, I’m getting you soup. Herald, you make sure she doesn’t sneak out.”

“I gotta go in to work, Jules-”

“Maria’s sure you’re sick, that’s why we came here,” Julia replies. “We were gonna surprise you at work with lunch and a requested favor, but you weren’t there. Got a little worried, since Maria said it wasn’t like you to skip.”

You run a hand through your hair. “I got caught out in the rain last night,” you reply, “some asshole was trying the old Free Cats to a Good Home in a cardboard box and-” you’re interrupted by a meow. You look over your shoulder at your bed, seeing the little flamepoint ragdoll (best guesstimate on breed, but you know fur patterns well enough from researching for Macavity) at the edge of your bed and looking at you with big eyes. You sigh as Julia’s face breaks into a grin and you don’t even need to read her mind to know she’s going to tell you that you’re a hero for this. “Couldn’t leave them out there. Ran most of them to the shelter, but that one wouldn’t let go of my sleeve, so I just...adopted her on the spot. Her name’s Michelle.” Like Michelle Pfeiffer. A reminder of your motto: _“Life’s a bitch and now so am I.”_

Herald’s all soft at this revelation, with his usual adoration. But it’s spiked with something softer, so soft that you don’t linger on it before you move out of the doorway with a sigh.

“I’ll behave,” you grumble, heading back into your apartment. You feel okay with them seeing the stacks of books (history, biology, poetry: nothing damning. Not like Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats would be) around the apartment, the barre you have set up in one corner, the bowl you put out for Michelle’s water. You sit down on the couch, curling up in the corner. “While I refuse to be in bed while there’s guests, couch is still resting.” Michelle pops onto your lap, having slowly prowled out while the three of you walked in.

Julia heads out for soup, while you and Herald take turns being Michelle’s jungle gym as the news plays a segment on Macavity. How they’ve been stealing from museums (museums you know, from digging, charge an arm and a leg to get in, putting education behind a paywall), private collectors (who happen to fund their collections by being corrupt politicians: it’s a wonder what a great distraction a missing statue can be, no one thinks to look for missing harddrives when a priceless statue goes missing), and...is that Chen? In a suit?

“What can you tell us about the attack on Gregori Marconi?” the reporter asks.

Chen does not look outwardly exhausted, but you know some of his ticks. He’s adjusting his watch, like time itself is handcuffing him to the situation he’s in now. “That it’s still being investigated.”

“But was it Macavity?” You’re not in range to sense her emotions, but her face is hungry. Greedy. “They haven’t made an open appearance since the gala, was the attack their doing to get back into the open spotlight?”

Your friend’s facial expression doesn’t move. You can only imagine his mind, a woven cascade of locks. “While Macavity was present, it’s currently unknown if they were responsible for the attack or the bomb. We cannot rule the possibility of another party, trying to use Macavity as a distraction.”

“Why do you say that, Marshall?”

“I was fighting Macavity as the bomb exploded on Marconi’s property,” Chen replied. “They seemed just as surprised as I was. While I cannot rule them ultimately innocent, I don’t believe the bomb fits the MO they’ve settled into.”

“But the gala-”

“Macavity’s bomb at the gala had no casualties, with minor injuries to civilians. Only Rangers were hurt directly by Macavity, not the bomb,” Chen replies and you almost smile. He had taken notice. Good. “The bomb at Marconi’s property had major injuries and almost killed civilians. The only reason that did not happen is that Macavity stopped fighting and helped with the rescue effort.”

“So then, what was-”

“That,” Chen replies with a tone of finality, “is still being investigated. Marconi’s estate does match the profile of Macavity’s other targets: he owns several art pieces that fit Macavity’s tastes. We cannot yet rule that Macavity didn’t set the situation up for good press, but we also cannot condemn them without further evidence. They are a suspect.”

“Looks good in a tux, doesn’t he?” Herald breaks you out of your focus. You look over to see him with Michelle curled up in the crook of his arm.

“Not what I’m smiling about, but he does,” you answer, “though he arguably looks better when comfortable.”

He tilts his head, curiosity leaking from every pore (not physically, physically he’s very good at a mask of polite interest, but Herald is transparent with his mind). “What were you smiling about?”

“Weirdly, Macavity?” you answer before you can stop yourself, before you can lie. “It just...I think it’s nice that they aren’t cackling while kicking puppies evil. Like I know their big appearance at the gala was...over the top, but maybe...” You force yourself to let the sentence drift before you can finish that traitorous thought.

“Maybe them can be good,” Herald finishes for you and you immediately feel guilty for putting the thought into his head. “I can see where you’re coming from, there. When I fought them, they could have done a lot worse, from what Ortega said. I thought at first that Ortega was just softening up how scary they were, by making it sound like they just knocked me out and called it a day. But...” He looks at the TV screen, where they have a picture of you. Of Macavity. Elegant, powerful, sexy Macavity. You truly feel alive in that suit. Power armor crafted to be thin and light, sacrificing some defense for mobility and speed. You can feel Herald remember his meeting with Macavity the other day, feel his embarrassment of finding Macavity’s antics attractive. His disbelief at them offering to donate funds to a charity of his choice. Them chipping in when a nearby bank robbery escalated. “I think they can be good,” Herald finished.

* * *

_"Wait..." When did he even pick those things up? You try to interrupt the flow of words, but it's too much, he's angry, he's angry at the world and he's angry at you for accepting what the world is telling you as fact. He's angry and he's stepping closer, and you take another step back and the back of the couch nudges you to a standstill._

####  **_“Does it say that I'm in love with you?”_ **


End file.
